


the fun (and flirting) in funerals

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, Implied Assassins/Mafia, M/M, Meet-Cute, Slightly Morbid Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: The man looks up, and smiles at Shiro. His teeth are pointed, and Shiro can't help but envision them scraping against his neck, maybe even drawing beads of blood, resisting a shiver.It's not his first time meeting someone at a funeral, but not someone as beautiful as as this.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	the fun (and flirting) in funerals

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Trick or Sheith event, and I decided to do the "blood moon" and "I got a bad feeling" prompts! (because, frankly, if you're at the funeral and you're the one in the coffin, it can only go down from there) Inspired by Gomez and Morticia's meet-cute!

It's bad manners to yawn at a funeral, but when it's gone into its fourth hour and the priest has been chanting in Latin for most of it and there's that soporific stench of churchly perfume, Shiro can't quite help himself. 

The only thing bearable is the man seated right in front of him: bloodlessly pale with raven hair and a sinfully-clinging funeral suit with a ruby tie and pocket square. Beside him is who Shiro deduces to be his mother in a flowing black dress and veiled hat. Both are wearing identical silver necklaces and are perfectly dried-eyed. 

The only people who seem to notice them are the plainclothes detectives, skillfully hidden among the many guests Sendak insisted on intending. Shiro saw the list, made years in advance—the lengthy demands of processions and pallbearers and speeches and donations—and couldn't help but roll his eyes. He had to go—his last paycheck depended on it—but he doesn't have to enjoy anything, except for the man being dead, of course. 

Sendak also stipulated being embalmed and being presented in an open coffin—why, Shiro couldn't understand, since the man was never handsome. Whoever did the task had either fumbled or disliked Sendak as much as... many did, for Sendak is now the same bright red, waxy color as Chairman Mao, another dictator who insisted on being publicly viewed. Roses choke the ornately-engraved coffin, with a cigar box laid on his chest and some gifts where mourners—wailing excessively and one fainting—had chucked in during part of the ceremony. 

Sendak's face is permanently frozen into a scowl, his bushy eyebrows almost in a V. Shiro wishes someone had thought to trim his fingernails. 

The priest drones on, elaborating on another monetary donation to the church Sendak gave before he croaked. _Spend this, in memory of me._ Shiro checks his watch, and notices the man in front of him doing the same. 

Finally, it's ended, and the pallbearers grunt as they heave the coffin down the aisle, some with sweat trickling down their faces. The man puts a handkerchief to his face, ostensibly weeping, but Shiro catches the barest edge of a smile on his lips. 

He's perfect. 

As everyone lumbers out of the church, Shiro follows the man, who touches his mother's shoulder before she's whisked off by one of the funeral-goers, a familiar man with silver hair. The lawn is overflowing with people, some checking their phones or trading business cards, but Shiro moves forward, straightening his tie and unbuttoning one button over his chest, heart doing backflips. 

Under the red moon, he looks even more enticing; he could lead Shiro to his death, and Shiro would gladly follow. His hair brushes the back of his neck slightest bit in the nighttime breeze, lips pursed in a thoughtful line as he watches the crowd. 

"Hello," Shiro says. "Who might you be?" 

The man looks up, and smiles at Shiro. His teeth are pointed, and Shiro can't help but envision them scraping against his neck, maybe even drawing beads of blood, resisting a shiver.

It's not his first time meeting someone at a funeral, but not someone as beautiful as as this. 

"Me?" His eyes rival the the stones of Shiro's great-aunt's antique silver-and-amethyst brooch, won in a high-stakes poker game with a member of the yakuza, a bank owner, and a prize fish breeder. "Keith. You?" 

"Shiro."

Keith raises his perfectly-arched eyebrows. "You knew Sendak?" 

"Not very fondly," Shiro admits. "I was his Champion, but the title did not suit me. This event, however, does." 

"Respect for the dead, Champion," Keith admonishes, but his tone is teasing. 

"I did not respect him when he was alive, so why should I now?" Shiro shrugs. "I'd rather shake your hand, or be on my knees, for someone like you." 

Keith eyes him, and Shiro puffs out his chest. He knows he's strong—he had to be, for his job—and despite the white in his hair, he still looks rather young, with calloused hands and wide shoulders. Still, some would-be partners ease away from him, probably detecting the presence of death lingering like an old friend, even before he was recruited. 

Evidently, though, Keith likes what he sees. "I know of you," he says at last, tapping a finger against his chin. His fingernails are painted with a distinctive gleam, something Shiro recognizes as dried rattlesnake venom. His heart pounds faster. "Let's just say we have a mutual acquaintance." 

_Ulaz_ , Shiro thinks. With Sendak's death, he's free to change organizations. He has one in mind. 

"Your mother," Shiro says, "it was good of you to accompany her. You must be a dutiful son." 

"She wanted... moral support." Keith smiles mysteriously. "I was happy to provide it." 

They both glance at the coffin making its way to the horse-pulled hearse, at the detectives skimming the edges of the crowd, and exchange private giggles. 

"I'm happy fate has brought us together," Shiro says lowly, bending down to kiss Keith's hand. "Many say the blood moon is a bad omen, but it can't be if I met you." 

"Some say it's a sign for hunters and healers," Keith replies, gripping his hand and stroking the underside of his palm, his touch sending an electric zip down Shiro's spine. "Which are you?" 

Shiro tilts his head to think. "I think I was a hunter, but tonight... my heart is beginning to heal with you." His hand still hasn't left Keith's. "If I may ask, would you like to skip the reception and attend dinner with me? I know a wonderful blood sausage place." 

Keith bobs in a little curtsy, eyes gleaming. "I'll be delighted."

**Author's Note:**

> Shout at me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/annaofaza)


End file.
